


Scars

by TheDramaLlama



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Blood Magic, Circle, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDramaLlama/pseuds/TheDramaLlama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Cullen is caring for an injured Inquisitor, he stumbles upon scars across her wrists. He had never thought that she would fall to Blood Magic, but what other explanation could there be for a Mage to have that kind of scars?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

It was well past midnight as Cullen carried the Inquisitor up to her room. He cradled the mage in his arms as she slumped against his chest, mouth slightly ajar. It would have been comical, perhaps endearing any other day, but the grim bandages wrapping their way up her left leg from ankle to mid-thigh were a constant reminder of her current condition.

A high dragon! Maker! They couldn’t keep sending her out like this! Aria was a talented mage to be sure, and her skills served her quite well in the field, but frankly, her survival thus far had been largely due to luck. An overwhelming amount of comically bad and good luck in equal measure. She felt so light in his arms. It was a wonder the beast hadn’t snapped her in half when it kicked her. If Bull’s report was to be believed, the force had sent her flying nearly fifty feet. A broken leg, bruised ribs, and an impressive collection of minor scrapes and cuts and she still managed to finish out the battle before passing out. She was pushing herself too hard.

Gently, he eased her through the doorway, careful not to hit her head on the jam. He doubted such a blow would even wake her up in her current state; the sleeping draughts the healers made were exceedingly potent. Still, the last thing he needed was a lecture from Cassandra about braining the Inquisitor. Besides, she already had a large gash across her temple the healers had slathered with some foul-smelling poultice.

The enormous bed seemed to swallow her up when he tucked her into it. Instinctively, she curled into herself as he pulled the blankets up around her shoulders. He was about to leave when he saw her exposed wrist dangling off the side of the bed. It was the mark that drew his gaze, still glowing softly in her sleep, but that was not what held his attention. A rough purple line ran up the inside of her wrist, disappearing under her sleeve.

All of her wounds were treated and bandaged. Had they missed an injury? She had been drifting in and out of consciousness the entire time the healers were working on her. Had she forgotten to show them a wound? With concern in his eyes, he lifted the sleeve to examine it.

But it wasn’t a wound, at least, not any more. The thin puckered scar ran straight across the middle of Aria’s delicate wrist, curving slightly at the end. Horror pulled at his mind as he tugged down her other sleeve, hardly bothering to be gentle. A perfect twin matched the first. This one was deeper and curved more as it stretched across the skin. A cold shiver ran down the commander’s spine and he tasted bile in his throat. Blood magic.

 

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The next few days passed in a blur. Cullen was so busy, he couldn’t have seen Aria even if he wanted to. She was still recovering in her quarters and he was buried behind reports and paperwork. The Templar in him wanted to confront her. To yell and shout and demand an answer. How had this happened? Why hadn’t he known? Sure, it had been months since his last dose of lyrium, but he was an accomplished and skilled Templar! He should still be able to sense blood magic, especially within the hold.

The other part of him was terrified. How could he have been so wrong about her? Aria had always seemed a kind, strong, sensible woman, if a little quiet. Time and time again, she pushed herself, bending over backwards to help her people. How could she put them all at risk like this? If the Inquisitor fell to a demon, the Inquisition would easily follow her into the void.

The thought pinched the back of his brain, the part that he fought so hard to silence. The part that came to life in Ferelden’s Circle. The part that said that all mages were dangerous, far too dangerous to be kept alive. The part that had agreed with Meredith’s measures and that had delighted when the Chantry exploded and it had been proven right. If she had fallen to blood magic, who was safe?

 

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He was out on the practice field when she found him. It was late at night, or perhaps very early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it. Sleep was avoiding him just as it was avoiding her. Instead, he lunged at the practice dummies, dodging imaginary strikes and raining down blows with his blade. If he was going to be awake, he might as well be doing something useful. Besides, he was tired of thinking. The repetitive exercises let him clear his mind. It was practically muscle memory at this point. Cullen was so focused on the task that he completely missed her entrance as she joined him at the side of the field.

Aria kept her distance, watching as the commander feinted to his left, then slashed the belly of his opponent. Despite the heaviness of his armor, the movements were fluid and graceful, displaying years of practice and experience. She observed silently for several moments before making her presence known.

“Your talents are wasted in paperwork, Cullen. We should take you to the field more often.”

Cullen’s back stiffened with the surprise of her voice. He whipped around, sword in hand.

“I – I didn’t see you there, Lady Inquisitor.”

“I’m sorry,” She moved forward, limping slightly. “You were so focused . . . I – I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

His free hand automatically went to the back of his neck. His eyes traveled down to her leg, still heavily bandaged. “Should you really be walking on that?” he gestured awkwardly with his sword.

She smiled quietly, “Don’t tell on me.” She glanced up at him, eyes happy. “I wanted to thank you for staying with me while the healers fixed my leg. I was pretty . . . out of it. They told me you carried me up to my room.”

“Of course, Lady Inquisitor.” He nodded a slight bow, quick and terse, then turned back to his exercises.

Aria frowned at the title. “I – Is something wrong, Cullen?” She stepped forward, eyes searching the stony mask of formality he had so suddenly assumed. They had been getting along so well these last few months. He was quickly becoming one of her closest friends, only using her title in formal company.

Viewed in profile, she saw his chest rise as he gathered a deep breath and closed his eyes. In an instant, he rounded on her. “I know what you are.” He closed the distance between them in one step, towering over her. “Three nights ago, I saw your wrists. I know about the scars, Blood Mage.” He spit the name at her, amber eyes glaring down with sword in hand. He looked, for all the world, like an avenging spirit. She shrank before him, emotions flying across her face. Shock. Horror. Confusion. Fear. Hurt. Instinctively, she pulled her arms against her chest, hiding her wrists from view. She looked down at her feet.

“I am not a blood mage.” Her voice, hardly more than a whisper.

“And I am not a fool, Aria!” Roughly he grabs her arm, yanking down the sleeve to reveal the pale purple scar marring her perfect wrist. “I am a Templar! I was subjected to blood magic! I was bound and tortured with it! Why else would a mage have these scars?” He glares down at her, daring her to deny it.

Tears have already made lines from her terrified eyes down her bone white cheeks. Shaking, she swallows and looks down at her feet. “Cullen . . . I . . .” Her voice is small, and he has to strain to hear her as she tries to start again. “C – Can you imagine for a moment, th-that I were not a mage.” She draws in a shuddering breath as she continues. “Imagine that I were a farmer, or a merchant . . . or a beggar. I - If I were just a person . . . someone who had hurt too much . . . why do you think I would have these scars?” She stares at the ground, body bent, small enough to crush, waiting for his judgment. “P – Please, don’t make me say it.”

“Oh.” His shoulders sag, and her releases the iron grip on her fore arm. She pulls it back to her chest, embracing herself. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” She tries to chuckle, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and it comes out more of a sob. “Sometimes I forget that you were a Templar. They . . . they thought it was blood magic too when the found me in a puddle of my own blood.”

The guilt crushes him. Of course she would never use blood magic. He should have known. His sword clatters to the ground as he brings his hands up to his forehead. The heels of his fists burrow into his clenched eyes. “Maker! I am so sorry.”

“P-P-Please don’t tell anyone!” she stammers suddenly, eyes wide with fright and panic.

“NO!” He reaches out instinctively. He longs to comfort her, to reassure her with his touch, but he is the one who put her in this state. His arm falls awkwardly to his side. “Never. I would never tell anyone!” His heart swells in his chest with pain and concern.

She nods silently, miserably, seemingly reassured. A shudder runs through her as she sits down on the wet grass of the field. Whether it’s the early morning chill or the echoing sobs of having her deepest secret ripped from her, Cullen is unsure. Fumbling, he removes the feathered pauldrons from his shoulders, draping them over her prone form. She buries her face in it.

“Maker’s breath . . . I am a fool.” He stands, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I-I should . . . do you want me to go? I-I could go get someone. Cassandra or Dorian?” He stammers. Maker. What have I done?

“Just . . . sit with me, Cullen. Please.” She doesn’t look at him. Cannot bear to face the judgment or pity that must certainly be written across his face.

Gingerly, he sits down next to her. “Does anyone else know?”

“Lelliana probably.” A harsh bark of laughter escapes her unsmiling lips. “Maker knows there must have been incident reports and investigations.” She gathered her good leg to her chest, hugging it with both arms. “She’s kept it to herself if she knows. What would the people say if they found out their precious ‘Herald of Andraste’ had tried to do Corypheus’ work for him?” The title was spit through her teeth like venom. The carefully crafted mask of strength and power she had become so accustomed to wearing was shattered. She felt like a child again, wrapped in this enormous cloak, all her pain and insecurities threatening to crush her.

Aria hears the rustling of metal as he removes his gauntlets. Gently, almost lovingly, his hand caresses her jaw, lifting her gaze to meet his amber eyes. There is no pity, no condemnation, no righteous judgment. What she sees is compassion. Pain for her pain. Concern and sadness are laid naked on his face, and a love she cannot fathom. She falls into his shoulder, tears flowing freely.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers into her ear as his fingers run gentle circles around her back. “I’m so sorry.”

She doesn’t know how long they sit there. All she knows is that when her tears stop flowing, her neck is stiff from holding the position and she is utterly drained. When Cullen feels Aria move against him, he helps her to stand, then walks her back to her room without another word.

 

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Aria does not leave her room the next day. Cullen finds it hard to focus on any task. Maker, all he wants to do is throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness. He catches himself staring at her tower, thinking of how short the distance is and how it might as well be a thousand leagues. He cannot go to her. He has broken her boundaries and trust and has lost the right to approach her. If she wants to speak, she will find him, and that will have to be ok. Sighing heavily, he goes back to attempting to read the report in front of him for the fifth time.

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It’s late in the evening when she seeks him out. Two days after their last unfortunate encounter. Cullen had just finished a letter to the Arle of Redcliffe when there is a timid knock on the door.

“Come.” He looks up as she enters, the candles from his desk throwing her angular features in sharp relief. “Inquisitor!” Instantly he stands up straight, knocking the letter and a few of his trappings off the desk.

“Cullen …” she seems startled by his snap to attention.

“I – umm . . .” he rubs the back of his neck fumbling for a safe piece of conversation. “Your … uh leg is looking better.”

She gives him a small smile. “The healers gave me a full bill of health today. They want me to rest a little more, but I’ll be back in the field in two days.”

“Maybe put off the next dragon hunt for a few weeks.”

She cracks a grin at him, but it’s replaced with an anxious grimace after a few seconds.

“Cullen . . . do you have time to talk?”

He nods quietly. “If that is what you wish.”

They climb the ladder to the loft he uses as his quarters. It can be cold at times with the hole in the ceiling, but he puts a log in the fireplace and Aria casts a mild fire spell and suddenly the room is pleasantly warm and cozy. She sits on the bed, perching on the edge as though she might jump off at any moment. “I . . . feel like I owe you an explanation.”

“No!” He practically shouted looking horrified. “Aria, you don’t owe me anything! Maker! I already forced this secret out of you! You do not owe me or anyone else anything.”

Taken aback by his sudden proclamation, she stared at him bewildered. What a contrast from the avenging spirit of a few days ago. Gathering her thoughts, she nodded. “Still Cullen, given our . . . relationship, there are some things I think I should tell you. Things I think you should hear.”

“Alright.” He can tell, she has already thought this through. She probably has a whole script in her head that he’s making a mess of with his interruptions. “If you want to talk, then I will listen.” Awkwardly, he sits on the bed as well, leaving a bit of room between them as a safe zone. “But, you only have to say what you want to. If it gets too painful . . . If at any point you wish to stop, it’s alright.”

She nods again, accepting his terms, then stares into the fire. Her eyes are a thousand leagues away and she doesn’t speak for a long time.

“I was 12 when the blight began.” She smiles sadly “Maker. That seems so long ago now.”

Cullen gives a rueful half smile. He knows what she means. So much had happened since he had been that scrawny 17-year-old Templar recruit. It seemed like a different lifetime now.

“My father, he was a good man. I think you would have liked him. He joked to hide the darkness, and he sang to us at night sometimes. He died quickly, cut down by darkspawn while we fled our burning home. My mother didn’t last much longer. She contracted the blight while we fled to Ostwick. It didn’t take long.”

“That must have been difficult.”

She nodded. Her eyes were sad, but the pain was distant at this point. “It was just me and Trina after that.”

“Trina?” Cullen hadn’t heard the name before.

Aria lifted her head to meet his eyes. The pain was etched across her face. “Katrina Trevellian, my little sister.”

“Oh.” Lelliana’s reports had indicated that Aria’s family had died during the blight, but had never mentioned a sister. She turned away from him again.

“Trina was always strong.” Her voice cracked tellingly. “She was 9, three years my younger, but you would never guess by the way she acted. She was a hothead, quick tempered but fiercely loyal. She always fought for what she thought was right, no matter the consequences or the odds stacked against her. She was stubborn as a mule.” A wet chuckle escaped Aria’s throat. “Father always said her red hair was a warning from the Maker.

“You have to understand Cullen, I lived for my sister. She was my life. Our parents were dead, our home was gone, and we had nothing. I told myself that as long as we were together, it would be ok. If I could get her to Ostwick, to my Aunt, then everything would be ok. If I could just get us to Ostwick…

“And I did it. I hid her from the darkspawn horde, from the roving packs and scouts in the woods. I fed her with my Father’s bow. We ate like the desperate, hunting, scavenging, and gathering whatever we could. I kept her warm at night, my gangly body wrapped around her like a blanket, giving her whatever heat I could. We were too scared to light a fire, but I did manage to steal us a mangy, threadbare blanket off a dead horse.  Somehow, we made it to Ostwick.”

Cullen nodded encouragement as she paused. His mind burned and dreaded what would come next. “Did you find your aunt?”

Aria nodded brokenly. “My Mother’s sister, she had no love for us.” She swallowed. “Perhaps at one time she loved our mother, she took us in and fed us so we would not starve, but the resentment was palpable. Her husband and her perfect son were her life, we were intruders on their happiness.

“Still, it was better than the streets. While we lay on the cold floor of my aunt’s woodshed wrapped under the same blighted blanket, I whispered to Trina how lucky we were. How we wouldn’t have to run anymore. How we didn’t have to be afraid anymore. How the two of us could be together here. I filled her head with promises of a beautiful future where we would be safe and the nightmares couldn’t touch us.”

Aria fell silent.

Cullen pressed his hand into her knee. Whether in support or encouragement, he did not know. “What happened then?” he whispered.

“My magic manifested.” A shudder ran down her back and she closed her eyes.

Cullen swallowed. Magic usually came out around puberty for a mage.

“I tried desperately to keep it hidden.” She choked on the words. “I bottled it up tightly within myself, never letting it out. You can probably guess what happened. It was like trying to damn a flowing river, eventually it burst out of me, violently.

“I didn’t hurt anyone.” She stared at him seriously. It was important to her that he knew this. “My aunt had slapped Trina for some minor offense, she had tracked mud into the house or stolen a slice of bread from the larder, it happened often enough. This time though, I screamed. I screamed, and . . . a wall of ice sprung up between Trina and my aunt. I remember Trina’s look of confusion and fear as she realized what I had done, what I was, what it meant for us.” Aria took a long shuddering breath and rubbed her eyes.

“My aunt called the Templars herself. She had found a way to rid herself of one extra mouth, of course she would take it.” The bile rose in the back of her throat as she spoke. “They tore me from Trina, screaming. My aunt ripped her from my arms, cursing at her, saying she’d ‘give her something to cry about.’ Trina just sobbed, falling to the ground. My beautiful, strong, fiery sister, brought down by my loss. That was the last time I saw my sister.

Aria kept talking, the words pouring out of her with such urgency she barely breathed. “The circle was practically a paradise when compared to the last year and a half of my life. I had a bed, a roof, three delicious meals a day. Everyone was kind to me. I suffered no abuse. I got to learn my craft. All I could think of was escape.

“And then . . .” Aria broke down. She fell into his shoulder, ragged breaths and enormous sobs wracking her entire body uncontrollably. Cullen’s arms wrapped around her of their own volition, his cheek pressed into her short brown hair.

“NINE MONTHS,” the pain tore through her as she gasped against his chest. “I was gone for NINE MONTHS . . . and she . . . she . . . A flu tore through the village . . . And I wasn’t there!” she gasped for breath. “The bitch probably left her to freeze on the floor of that damned woodshed!” Great heaving sobs wracked her body now as she howled with her pain. Cullen just held her as best he could.

“SHE WAS MY LIFE!” she shook against him. “She was beautiful and young and perfect . . . and she needed her sister! An-And I wasn’t THERE!” The tears flowed freely and there was no stopping them now. He held her tightly to himself, his own tears mingling with hers, desperate to give her what ever she needed.

They stayed like that for a long time. Gently, he stroked her hair as her breathing gradually returned to normal. She closed her eyes against his shoulder. When she had calmed down, he carefully disentangled himself from her grip. He stood there for a second, gazing at the huddled figure on his bed. Her eyes were empty, drained of all energy. Draping a blanket around her shoulders, he moved to the fire to put a kettle of water on.

“Thank you.” Her voice was small and exhausted.

“Aria . . .” Cullen paused, trying to find the right words, “it wasn’t your fault.”

She was silent a moment, considering the cup of weak tea he had just pressed into her hands. “I know.”

“Then why?” The pain in his eyes bore into her, searching for a reason.

Aria shrugged, eyes on her feet. “Katrina was my life. Even while I was in the Circle, I woke up every day for her. I ate, I slept, and I practiced my magic so that one day I would be strong enough to escape and we could be together again. With her gone, I realized that there is only one way to truly escape the Circle, to escape the blight, to escape the flu. I took a knife from the kitchen, walked to a secluded area of the library, and slit my wrists.

“The demons came, of course. They promised me things, vengeance, wealth, a life free from pain, but all I wanted was release. They thought it was a waste. I said nothing and I waited for death.” She gave a dark chuckle and looked into his eyes. “They say the maker does no welcome those who hasten their passing to his side, but I did not care. The maker had stolen my home, my father, my mother, my sister, my purpose. He could damn me to the void for all I cared, I just wanted it to end.” Aria sighed looking down at her feet, “Sometimes I still do.”

Cullen dropped to his knees in front of her, forcing himself into her line of vision. Gently he placed a hand against her wet cheek. “Please don’t.” She pressed her face into his hand. “I know what it is like to feel cornered by your feelings, to be standing at the ledge of a window in a burning building and thinking how much easier it would be to just jump, to not have to feel anymore. I won’t belittle you and tell you not to feel your sorrow, but please . . . please do not give into it.”

She closes her eyes. “I know it is . . . irresponsible to think such things when the Inquisition-“

“Hang the Inquisition!” Cullen shouts, his angry outburst forcing Aria to look at him. He sighs, thumbs pressing to the bridge of his nose. “I’m speaking to you now Aria. Not the Inquisitor, not a mage, not the herald. You. You do not get to decide what you feel all the time. Emotions change and feelings leave you at their mercy. This is the way it is for everyone in this life. I am not asking you to stop feeling or to control your emotions. I’m trying to tell you . . . you don’t have to do it alone.”

“Please, let me help you. Maker, it doesn’t even have to be me! Talk to Dorian or Varric or Cassandra! You don’t even have to tell them anything! You know each one of us would bend over backwards for you. We don’t expect you to do this all on your own.”

Somehow, without her being aware of it, Aria suddenly found herself curled into Cullen’s lap. She leaned against his strong chest. “Alright.”

Cullen ran a hand over her back. “Your loss would break my heart.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! This is my first fan fiction! please be gentle, but also I am open to suggestions if you know how to improve it!


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